


I've got you pegged

by Frenchcroatiansquid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: valar-morekinks, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Hooray for cringy titles, Intrigue, Modern AU, Pegging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchcroatiansquid/pseuds/Frenchcroatiansquid
Summary: Sansa's job is hell on earth. So is her marriage. When Littlefinger offers her a way out of both, she is tempted to take him up on his offer. Only thing is, she doesn't have what Petyr wants in return. That is until her husband makes her an unexpected gift.Prompt: I would love to read something where Tywin wants his wife Sansa to peg him, and she does it and is surprised by the amount of emotion Tywin displays after they finish.





	1. Chapter 1

At 11 pm, Sansa Stark was the last person to leave the office and, by the gods, she wasn't proud of it. Fourteen hours at her desk had turned her brain to mush and the muscles on her back into a net of twisted, painful knots.

She did one last round through the office, turning off all the lights people had left on and shutting the windows no-one had bothered to close.

As always, she'd finished her story early that day, but Stannis had thrown it right back in her face, telling her to rewrite the whole thing. Then, when she didn't think her day could get any worse, Petyr Baelish had called her. He always used a different number, so there was no way of blocking him.

By the time Stannis was pleased enough to put his own name under her story and send it off to the editors, it was 9:30 pm. Sansa had then spent the next ninety minutes trying to catch up on _urgent!!!_ emails and all the other _top-priority!!!!_ stuff that had piled up on her desk before finally calling it a day.

At least Tywin was still away on business in Shanghai over the weekend, so she wouldn't have to deal with _him_ on top of everything else.

It was snowing as Sansa left the building through the tall glass doors. She pulled her hood over her head and started walking.

The streets were deserted, but Petyr was waiting for her less than half a block from her office, standing under a lamppost like a living and breathing cliché straight out of a film noir, save for the phone in his hand.

“Go away, Littlefinger,” Sansa shouted at him without slowing down.

Petyr fell in next to her. “I want you to know that my client is willing to pay a significant amount of money,” he said. “If whatever you can provide lands Tywin in jail, I bet you will have enough you won't even have to move out of 432 when you separate... Nobody will ever know it came from you.”

 _Trust me, if I had that kind of dirt on my husband, I would have used it against him a long time ago._ “Go away or I'm calling the cops, Petyr. You know you're not supposed to come within 100 feet of me.”

But Littlefinger was not the kind of man to let himself be held back by a restraining order. “He doesn't have to go to jail,” he continued. “If he were somehow forced to resign from the board, I'm sure there would be enough in it for you to pay for your divorce and buy yourself a nice little place in Brooklyn. Think about it.”

 _So your client is a board member._ Sansa briefly wondered who it could be only to decide she didn't care enough. _Cersei... Tyrion.... Joff... perhaps all of them together_. Everybody knew the Lannisters abhorred each other, but if there was one thing that united them, it was their shared hatred of the family patriarch. “Look, Petyr, even if I _had_ anything, which I _don't_ , I certainly wouldn't share it with _you_.”

Petyr shrugged. “Fair enough. Just give me a call when you change your mind.”

When _I change my mind... not_ if _I change my mind... of course_. Sansa couldn't even say why his words bothered her so much. But they did.

Of course, the fucking E train wasn't running. Times like these, Sansa missed Boston, where the T didn't shut down because of half an inch of snow. _Or_ three feet _of snow, for that matter._

“Just come back home,” her mother had offered. “I'm sure your father could get you a job at the _Globe_.”

What Catelyn Stark did not understand was that Tywin Lannister wasn't the type of man to be left by his wife. Hells, it was rumored his first wife had faked her own death just to get out of her marriage. Jaime himself swore a woman claiming to be Joanna Lannister had called him in the middle of the night about a year ago.

Sansa didn't have the faintest idea how to go about faking her own death, but she suspected moving back to Boston afterwards and starting a new job at the _Globe_ wasn't an option.

She pulled out her phone to call an Uber, only to find it had run out of battery. Of course, all the yellow cabs were ignoring her. _Oh, fuck it_ _._ She was _walking_ home then.

By the time Sansa reached Park Avenue, the snow had turned into sleet pelting her relentlessly. Her boots were soaked from stepping into puddle after puddle of slush each time she had to cross the road.

The doorman greeted her with a smile. “Good evening, Ms. Stark. You're home late today. Busy day at work?”

Normally, Sansa would have stayed to chat with him, but her feet felt like two blocks of ice. All she wanted was a bath and a cup of thick hot chocolate. _No, wine. I want a cup of wine. Make that a_ bottle _, actually._ A smile crossed her face. _A bottle of wine_ in _the bathtub_.

But as soon as she stepped out of the elevator, she knew something wasn't right. There was light in the hallway, but that wasn't it. The place _felt_ different. _Fuck. He's home early_. There were times when that would have made Sansa happy. Now, it just made her more exhausted.

She found Tywin sitting behind his desk in the southern study, scribbling notes on a piece of paper, acknowledging her presence with a brief nod as she entered. “Sansa.”

“You're back.” Sansa looked down at her wet feet on the hardwood floor, hoping her husband wouldn't notice the disappointment in her voice. “Sorry I'm late,” she added quickly. “Stannis Baratheon nearly fired me today. The train wasn't running. I couldn't get a cab. Oh, and Petyr Baelish is stalking me again.” _And now_ you _are here._ She sighed. “How was _your_ day?”

Tywin ignored her question. “I got you a gift,” he said without looking up from his papers, nodding in the direction of the side table by the large window overlooking downtown Manhattan.

A gold-plated wooden box was placed right in the middle. When Sansa opened it, she found a belt made of soft red leather and chains of gold on the silken padding.

Only when she pulled it out did she realize it was actually a _harness_ and... _Oh the gods..._ There was a _dildo_ attached to it. “What... what am I supposed to do with _this_?”

“Use it.”

 _Use it..._ Sansa took another look. It was made of glass, with swirls of gold and red glittering inside.

“It's inlaid with gold and red diamonds,” Tywin explained. “I had it custom made.”

 _Of course you did. They don't sell this stuff at the Pleasure Chest._ Just the thought of her husband walking into an ordinary sex shop and asking for a dildo made her chuckle.

“I thought you would... enjoy it. There is no second one like it in the world.” For a moment, he almost sounded wounded that she did not react the way he had hoped. But then, he just turned to his papers again.

 _What does he expect me to say?_ Sansa turned the strap-on in her hand. _This has got to be the most expensive sex toy in the universe. And the most_ ridiculous _as well._ “Thank you. It.. it's very... beautiful.” She paused. “I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed. I'm sorry...”

Tywin shrugged. “Very well.”

Sansa straightened her shoulders. “I'm sleeping in the studio tonight.”

“That is your right.” His voice was as cold as his eyes.

 _Death by a thousand paper cuts_ , Sansa thought. _Only usually, it takes decades for couples to get to the point where we're at_. “Well,” she said. “You know where to find me.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The elevator took less than thirty seconds to descend fifty floors and opened directly into the studio, so there was no way for her to lock the door. _Tywin won't come looking for me though,_  Sansa thought. _Not if his life depended on it._ She couldn't say when exactly they had fallen out of love – since when it was that, no matter what she did, all she ever got in return was a disapproving look at best and an indifferent shrug at worst. He'd never do anything that could possibly be misconstrued as _concern_ for her. No. She was quite safe.

Sansa plugged her phone into the charger, slipped out of her pants and poured herself a glass of Sauvignon blanc before turning on the water in the bathtub. It was a lot smaller than her fancy tub in the penthouse, and the view wasn't half as nice. That was the price of getting away from her husband's icy gaze and the deafening silence between them. It was one she gladly paid these days.

The wine was mediocre at best, but even in the maid's quarters on the lower levels of 432 Park Avenue, mediocre wine was still a small act of rebellion, so she downed the glass and poured herself another one. _I can't win. He's always going to have the upper hand._ It was a sad fact of life that Tywin was simply much more skilled at hurting her than she was at hurting him.

On her wedding day, Margaery had joked Sansa would never be able to afford getting out of her marriage again. “You'll be stuck drinking Moët and vacationing on the Maldives.” Their friends had thought that was the most hilarious thing ever. Unfortunately, it had also turned out to be _true_  in a way.

 _Well, except for the vacation part._ Her husband didn't believe in vacations.

It was still snowing outside. From her kitchen window, she could see the Lion's Tooth through the flurry of white flakes. “What a disgrace to our family name,” Tywin always said whenever he caught a glimpse of it, and Sansa was never quite sure whether he meant the tower or his grandson. Either way, he had a point.

 _If it wasn't for that little shit, I never would have ended up in this wreck of a marriage to begin with. Him and Arya. Screw_ her _, too._ She'd interviewed Joffrey back when _she_ was still in J-School and _he_ had just made 30 under 30 in what could arguably be called a lapse in judgment of historical proportions on Forbes' part.

Of course, it barely took ten minutes of interview before Joffrey had a major meltdown on camera in response to a reasonably polite question, so the following day, Sansa found herself at the Lannister Mansion, where Tywin informed her in no uncertain terms that he was going to _destroy_ her if any of that footage ever saw the light of day.

When she told her sister of his attempts to intimidate her, Arya got so angry she uploaded the unedited video to Youtube that very night and sent the link to every single of their media contacts. But for some reason, instead of calling his lawyers, Tywin had invited Sansa for dinner and asked her advice on how to deal with an unmanageable public relations disaster like Joffrey. The rest was history.

 _Boredom._ Sansa thought. _He was_ bored _with all the yes-men around him, and I... well, I was twenty-two and oh so_ flattered _._

For about half a year, they'd drowned in their mutual infatuation, with Tywin asking her views on almost everything, and Sansa giving him uncharacteristically brutal and honest opinions. It wasn't like her to be blunt, but there was something exhilarating about looking a man _so_ powerful his gaze made grown men shit their pants straight in the eye and telling him he was dead wrong. _And getting away with it_. It had made her feel like the most fearless person in the world.

By the time she realized the only reason she was able to contradict Tywin was because it _amused_ him, she had a wedding band on her finger and was stuck in a _very_ unequal relationship with the coldest person known to gods and men.

Perhaps the worst of it all was that everyone else had seen her for what she was from the beginning. _Everybody knew I was a lap-dancing monkey. Everyone except me_. Sansa finished her glass, filled it again and put the wine back in the fridge. _On second thought, let's just take the whole bottle. I'll need it._ She pulled off the rest of her clothes and grabbed her phone.

The warm water felt good as she lowered herself into the tub. There were three missed calls, all from an unknown number – Petyr, of course – and five Whatsapp messages: three from her mother, one from Margaery, and one from another unknown number. _Also Petyr, no doubt._

Her eyes fell on the strap-on she'd dropped right next to the bathtub. _Use it..._

No doubt this was just another ploy on Tywin's part, a trick to get her to open up so he could throw any affection she might show him right back in her face. _I guess I could always use it on myself._ That was only _fair_ given the state of their sex life. Still... she was more intrigued by the idea of reversing their roles than she cared to admit.

Sansa swiped all of her messages away and opened Pornhub. _Let's see... Strap-on? Pegging? Femdom?_ She tried her best to ignore the ads offering her penis enlargements and supposed messages from “local women” all dying to give her a blowjob. _Where is targeted advertisement when you need it? And when will someone finally work up the courage to tell men that dicks aren't pretty??_

Sansa scrolled through the results, watching clip after clip of men on all fours, bent over a table or on their backs, some of them silent, others moaning, yet others begging for more. She tried and failed to imagine Tywin in their place. But as ridiculous as all of this was, there was something fascinating about men making themselves so vulnerable and being able to enjoy it. _Use it.. that's what he said... use it..._

And suddenly, she knew exactly what she could give Littlefinger to make his clients happy enough to shower her with money. In the hypermasculine world of corporate finance, there was no place for vulnerability. Granted, _any_ kind of sex tape usually sufficed to blackmail a man. But _this_ was the _golden ticket_ , a virtual guarantee of success. _All I have to do is do what he's asked me to, make a little recording, and let toxic masculinity work its magic._

Then, her conscience caught up with her. This was messed up on so many different levels, she couldn't even begin to list them all. It was almost as if Petyr Baelish had cut open her head, placed the idea in there and sewn her up again. _But it_ could _work. Nobody will ever know it was me._

She took another look at her present on the bathroom floor. _Gold and red diamonds_. It had Tywin written all over it, walking that fine line between bold and flashy, always bordering on bad taste without ever crossing the line. _They are going to make fun of that if Littlefinger ever leaks the video_ , she thought. _They are going to think it's_ hilarious _that even the cock his wife fucks him with is made of gold. This is going to destroy him._

She took a long sip of wine directly from the bottle before picking up her phone again and calling the unknown number.

“Yes?” _Yup, that's Petyr. Damn it, I'm drunk-calling Petyr Baelish_. He sounded so pleased with himself too that Sansa almost hung up again.

“Yes? How can I help you, Sansa?”

She took a deep breath. _I'm not doing this for Littlefinger_ , she had to remind herself _. I am stuck in a toxic marriage, and nobody is going to save me, so I'm saving myself._ “Listen,” she slurred, trying her best to sound sober. “I need _money.._. Enough money to pay for a good... divorce lawyer... and to never _ever_ have to write a single article for Stannis Baratheon _ever_ again. If you can p-promise me that, you'll get Tywin's resignation on a gold platter... and I... I'll sprinkle some red diamonds on top.”

“How poetic.” Petyr laughed. “You have my word. But let's do ourselves a favor and stop pretending this is about your divorce. We both know that all you want is-”

“I'll let you know once I have something for you,” Sansa interrupted him. “Do _not_ call me again.”

After she hung up, she just sat in the bathtub staring into space until the water was cold and she felt almost sober again. Slowly, she pulled herself up. The woman staring back at her from the mirror with her puffy eyes and black streaks of mascara running down her face looked like a stranger.

 _This started with a video, and it will end with one._ Sansa thought. _I win._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa awoke with what was probably her worst headache since her junior year in college.  _One last drink_. All she'd wanted to have was  _one_ last drink before bed. She cursed the part of herself that had thought opening a second bottle of wine was a good idea. Like she'd never made that mistake before. For a moment, the pounding behind her eyes was all she could focus on. Then her memories came rushing back. _Oh gods_.

She quickly checked her phone, only to find that, yes, she had indeed called Petyr. _Twice. Fuck_. All she remembered was their first conversation, but that was bad enough.  _Blackmail Tywin with homemade porn. No, have_ Littlefinger _blackmail him_. It was the kind of idea only wine could put in her head. _Or Petyr, fuck him._

He'd sent her another text. “A mother's eyes are ever watchful,” it said. She pictured Littlefinger typing the message, softly chuckling to himself.

 _Mommy's eye_ was what she'd called the nanny cam aunt Lysa had used to spy on her, back when Sansa still lived in Boston and would watch her cousin so Lysa could spend time with Petyr. The camera was a shiny black lens that could be attached to any surface, smaller than a dime and not much thicker. Sansa would have probably never noticed it if Sweetrobin hadn't started talking about “mommy's eye watching us” out of the blue one day. (“No, look, Sansa, _that's_ mommy's eye! There! _See?_ ”)

Needless to say that had been the last time she'd ever babysat Sweetrobin. Sansa had removed the camera and taken it with her, just to make a point.

That was years ago, but _of course_ Petyr remembered. _Ever watchful my ass_. Sansa deleted the message and added the number to her blacklist.

Her head was still throbbing as she dragged herself to the bathroom. Her face was puffy, her eyes bloodshot. She got some ice cubes from the fridge, wrapped them in a towel and pressed them on her eyelids until the redness was almost gone.

“You drink too much,” Tywin always complained. He was right, of course; nobody knew that better than Sansa herself. “Drinking,” she had told Margaery, with philosophical certainty, after her fourth gin tonic on their girls' night out, “is temporary death. I don't _think_. I don't _worry_. I don't feel the anger. It's like I don't exist. It's great.” Margaery had nodded vigorously; after her second divorce and with her third marriage failing, she knew exactly what Sansa was talking about.

There was no point in trying to explain “temporary death to get away from it all” to the man who was the source of most of her anger on any given day though. “If I had wanted an overbearing parent by my side policing my every step,” Sansa liked to tell him instead, “I would have moved back in with my father, thank you very much.” The comparison with Ned Stark usually worked magic to shut up even Tywin Lannister.

Sansa picked out her most comfortable pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. At least it was Saturday and she didn't have to go to the office. With a bit of luck, Tywin was already at work and she had the penthouse to herself. _It's past ten_ , she told herself as she stepped into the elevator. _He has_ _to have left by now_.

But her husband was sitting by the panorama window in the living room, drinking his kopi luwak (“cat shit coffee,” Sansa called it), reading the _Financial Times. Like a caricature of himself_ , Sansa thought.

“You're in a bad mood,” he said without looking up. The rest remained unspoken, but Sansa knew what he was thinking: _explain yourself. Make it short though; I don't have time for your drama_.

She suppressed the urge to walk right back out. _No point in fighting a fight I cannot win_. “I'm sorry,” she said, sitting down on the couch. “I'm just sick of Stannis passing off my work as his own. I know everybody does it, but it's infuriating.”

Just mentioning work was a mistake, of course. “So quit,” Tywin said. “Nobody is forcing you to do this job.”

 _Here we go again_ , Sansa thought. They'd been over this so many times she could no longer keep count. “It's the twenty-first century, Tywin,” she'd told him again and again. “Women have jobs. I _like_ my job; I just hate Stannis.”

“If you need money, just tell me,” he would say. Or: “This is more of your feminist nonsense, thinking you need a job to be my equal.” Or: “Why go through all this trouble when your salary won't even cover the electricity bill?”

At some point, Sansa had found his bluntness refreshing. “At least he's _honest_ ,” she'd told her mother. (“Cruel,” Catelyn had corrected her.) Now, all it did was make her sick. The worst part was, he had a point. The monthly property tax on the penthouse alone was more than three months' worth her salary.

But for some reason, Tywin managed to keep his snide remarks to himself for once. “I can get Stannis fired if you want,” he offered instead.

There was little Sansa wanted more, but having Tywin do the dirty work for her took all the satisfaction out of seeing Stannis go. “No use.” She said. “Whoever is going to replace him will be just as bad.”

Tywin shrugged. “As you wish.” He put the paper aside. “I have to go.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “When will you be home tonight? I thought I'd cook us dinner.”

“I won't be back in time,” Tywin said, but Sansa knew him well enough to know he was pleased by the offer. “I suppose I can arrange to be back by seven,” he added after a brief pause.

“Dinner at seven then,” Sansa said. “I love you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't been writing much - it's been a busy year at work. But I want to write more again and do have a sequel planned for this fic.

At seven sharp, Sansa took the champagne out of the freezer and placed it in the cooler. The mousse au chocolat was chilling in the fridge, and her appetizer of scallops with saffron butter was arranged on the table. The duck was sizzling in the oven, perfectly timed to be served just after their first course. If there was one thing Sansa had learned as a journalist, it was working towards a deadline.

She'd put on her winter of 1955 cocktail dress that Tywin had bought at an auction for a small fortune. Sansa didn't exactly share his enthusiasm for the fifties, but the dress was pretty enough, and she knew Tywin would appreciate the gesture.

At half past seven, Sansa poured herself her first glass of red wine, carefully sipping it through her teeth to avoid staining her lips. _He's stuck in traffic_ , she told herself, looking out the window. _It's not his fault._ Snow always plunged the city into madness. _Everybody_ knew that.

“Made dinner,” she texted Margaery at eight. “Guess who's not here.”

At nine o'clock, she'd finished the bottle. Her lips and teeth had turned an unattractive blueish red. _He could have called_ , she thought, _let me know he was running late_ _._ Was that too much to ask for? Trying to call was pointless; Tywin _never_ answered his phone.

Sansa took a piece of duck and stuffed it in her mouth. It had turned cold and rubbery, and the thick layer of fat made her gag. She dumped the rest in the trash, took a picture and sent it to Margaery. “I probably should have seen this coming,” she added. That was the worst of it all. She _should_ have seen it coming.

By 9:30, there was still no news from Tywin. Or from Margaery, for that matter. Sansa turned on the TV, wrapped herself in a blanket and curled up on the sofa. All the waiting had made her tired. Or perhaps it was the wine.

Her phone woke her up. It was almost midnight. _Tywin_ , was her first thought, but it was an unknown number. “What do you want, Petyr?”

There was a pause on the other end. “I need you to get me a draft in by tomorrow 8 a.m.” _Stannis._ “We're running the story on Monday. You know the one about Homeland I've been working on. I'll send you what I've got.”

 _Of course._ Sansa's head was hurting, but she was sober enough to be angry – angry at Tywin, angry at Stannis, and most of all, angry at herself. _No. No no no. This stops today._ She took a deep breath. “No.” 

 “You're telling me you don't need my notes?” Stannis scoffed.  “You want to write the article from scratch? Well, be my guest.”

Sansa took another deep breath. Stannis was still still ranting and rambling on the other end. What she was about to do was stupid. It was also long overdue. “No," she interrupted. “My shift doesn't start until Monday. You don't have to send me anything because I'm not going to write your article for you.”

There was an angry pause that felt like almost an hour to Sansa. Her heart was pounding.

“Come again? What did you just say?” 

Sansa pictured Stannis clenching his jaw, his head a dark shade of red, the vein on his forehead about to burst. And suddenly, she felt very calm. “You heard me the first time, Stannis. I won't write the article for you. There's nothing you can do about that. I quit.” With that, she hung up.

The phone kept ringing until she blocked the number.

The ice in the cooler had melted and the champagne was lukewarm. She opened the bottle and emptied it in the sink. _That's 10k down the drain._ It felt both incredibly childish and incredibly _good_. So good.

“Just quit my job,” she texted Margaery with the kind of deep satisfaction she hadn't felt since she'd told her father she was marrying Tywin Lannister. “You know what else? I'm getting a divorce.”

And by the gods, she wasn't going to go quietly. She was going to make that clip and sell it to Petyr's stupid client. Or to any of her husband's three million other enemies; she didn't really care. Or perhaps she would simply keep it for a rainy day. It was a good thing to have. _Like insurance_. 

Sansa smiled as she put the empty champagne bottle on the kitchen counter and headed for the elevator.


End file.
